fluenza" until they got him to Switzerland, and they were
very anxious; indeed, Pfister's news from Martigny had scared his
mother--not very well herself--into wild plans for recapturing him.
However, Osborne Gordon was going to Chamouni with Mr. Pritchard, and so
they gave him a little longer; and he made the best use of his time:

"_Monday evening (August_ 20, 1849).

"MY DEAREST FATHER,

"I have to-night a packet of back letters from Viege ... but I have
really hardly time to read them to-night, I had so many notes to
secure when I came from the hills. I walk up every day to the base
of the aiguilles without the slightest sense of fatigue; work there
all day hammering and sketching; and down in the evening. As far as
days by myself can be happy they are so, for I love the place with
all my heart. I have no over-fatigue or labour, and plenty of time.
By-the-by, though in most respects they are incapable of
improvement, I recollect that I thought to-day, as I was breaking
last night's ice away from the rocks of which I wanted a specimen,
with a sharpish wind and small pepper and salt-like sleet beating
in my face, that a hot chop and a glass of sherry, if they were to
be had round the corner, would make the thing more perfect. There
was however nothing to be had round the corner but some Iceland
moss, which belonged to the chamois, and an extra allowance of
north wind."

This next is scribbled on a tiny scrap of paper:

"GLACIER or GREPPOND, _August_ 21.

"MY DEAREST FATHER,

"I am sitting on a gray stone in the middle of the glacier, waiting
till the fog goes away. I believe I _may_ wait. I write this line
in my pocket-book to thank my mother for hers which I did not
acknowledge last night. I am glad and sorry that she depends so
much on my letters for her comfort. I am sending them now every day
by the people who go down, for the diligence is stopped. You may
run the chance of missing one or two therefore. I am quite well,
and very comfortable--sitting on Joseph's knapsack laid on the
stone. The fog is about as thick as that of London in
November,--only white; and I see nothing near me but fields of
dampish snow with black stones in it."

And then:

"MONTANVERT, _August_ 22.

"I cannot say that on the whole the aiguilles have treated me